![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM
TDM & EVENT: JERICHO
ᛗ
Prologue: New Characters
You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.
It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.
"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.
"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.
Welcome home, new Vessels.
It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.
The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.
Welcome home, new Vessels.
ᛗ
Sink Down Like Precious Stones
( content warnings: drowning, body horror )
Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.
This is a test, and it begins with belief.
Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.
Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.
NOTES:
This is a test, and it begins with belief.
Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.
Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.
NOTES:
• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.
• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.
ᛗ
You Taste Like New Flesh
( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )
The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm.
Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.
"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."
The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.
Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.
Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.
Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.
Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.
Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.
Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.
Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.
The table awaits.
NOTES:
• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.TOKEN EFFECTS:
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.
• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.OFFERING EFFECTS:
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.
• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.
ᛗ
There's Something In The Way You Lay
( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )
Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten.
At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are.
You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.
NOTES
NOTES
• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.TOKEN EFFECTS
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.
• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.
• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.
ᛗ
I am not worthy
( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )
Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot.
First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence.
Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall.
They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.
"I am not worthy."
One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.
It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.
When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.
What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.
This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.
One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.
NOTES:
One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.
It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.
When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.
What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.
This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.
One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.
NOTES:
• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.TOKEN EFFECTS
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.
• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.OFFERING EFFECTS
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).
• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.
ᛗOOC NOTES
➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!
➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.
➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.
➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!
➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!
➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.
➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!
frédéric "freddie" lavoie | original character | currently ingame
mostly doing closed starters in the logcomm for this one - if we don't already have something planned and you'd like me to toss one up, feel free to hmu on discord or PP
Quick synopsis + links — ]
freddie's a former-military, 33-year-old lapsed catholic commercial pilot who had spent the past 4 months prior to arriving in somnia skating under the radar with severe undiagnosed bulimia; he's early in his recovery by this point ingame. he's friendly, genuinely kind, and can be fun to be around, but he has some serious commitment/intimacy issues stemming from the parental divorce that made him a devout atheist at age 7 and getting cheated on during his first deployment ten years ago which have left him chronically incapable of attaining the intimacy he craves. instead he's just spent the past ten years chasing it with a life full of hookups, which he's consistently self-sabotaged by ghosting or calling it off after two or three meetings before he actually gets the kind of affection he's seeking. despite his poor body image and repressed feelings of inadequacy, he gives the impression of someone confident and in-control - when in reality he spends each day feeling like he's holding on by his fingernails.
in somnia, he's a valkerie, with his plumage alternating between that of a cedar waxwing and a snowy owl depending on the temperature around him; unless specified, he doesn't have his wings—like a lycan, freddie's monstrous traits come and go, but they're not tied to any particular environmental trigger like the moon, so there's no predicting when they'll appear. this has made it very difficult for him to actually learn to use his wings, which he still hasn't managed yet!
more detailed synopsis + full info!
I. Strike like Benny Goodman
you taste like new flesh | ota 18+
CWs: oblique references to prior emeto/bulimia, references to internalized fatphobiaII. Pull my trigger!
the way you lay | α — gunplay, risky sex | m/m or m/f 25+
CW: unsafe gunplay.III. "When you speak to an officer, you say sir."
the way you lay | α — military kink, uniforms, rankplay, giving orders, D/s | m/m or m/f 25+
CWs: sexualization of power imbalance/classism and uniforms associated with US intervention in the middle east.
I
Though Ironeye's costume resembled that of a huntsman in from the wilds more than a standard party guest, his voice was not unfriendly. Baritone, with a clearly American accent. ]
Not at all. But I'm afraid I may be a little rusty.
no subject
He grins brightly and motions for the man to come with him as he starts towards the floor. ]
Well, I am too, so you’re in good company. Where are you from? I can’t peg the accent other than ‘from somewhere I probably know’.
[ Though anyone familiar with the East Coast would probably be able to take a stab at his own and get it mostly right: despite residing in Queens for the past year, he lacks the stereotypical New York City accent, but Freddie does still correctly clocks as ambiguously Northern to most people, and, to some, a New Yorker—in the Rochester way, not the expensive magazine one. ]
no subject
[ Yet Freddie's manner of dress was strange to him, even in the various times and eras with which he was familiar. His own smile was hidden behind his clothing, but it was once again audible in the particulars of his voice. He followed the man out onto the floor with the smooth, easy strides of someone used to long miles on foot. ]
And you? You seem strangely at home here.
[ Not like some of the others, who were decidedly on the back foot in their unfamiliar surroundings. ]
cw oblique references to purging, aviation accidents
He’s had that ability for a long time, though. It predates all of this, it predates ---------- and ---------------- Air D.B.A. ----------- and his Major’s commission in the Air Force. He was liked in OTS. He was liked as soon as he was assigned to a unit. And it had hit like a drug, like a houseplant grown in a dim living room finally being moved outdoors, showered with direct light for the first time.
Freddie Lavoie likes to be liked. And people like confidence.
This isn’t to say that all of his ease in the situation is manufactured. He’s still riding the wave of calm that comes with returning his body to a blank slate however violently, and he’s buzzed. He’s enjoying himself, and his sociability isn’t feigned. He likes to be liked, but he likes people, too. ]
It’s not my first rodeo. [ Freddie smiles. ] It’s my second. I was here once before, in a dream that came before this. And this place is a hell of a lot nicer than where we’ve all been living between Point A and Point B.
[ Well, depending on who you ask. At least it’s not cold here. ]
no subject
A little too quiet here for my taste. Can't help feeling restless.
[ Like waiting for bad news. Not that he wouldn't take advantage of the respite. He plucked a glass of something off of a near table and drained its contents. It was a practiced motion, for which he had to pull his mask aside for a brief moment before replacing it. Handsome features, a strong jaw.
In the distance, a slow beat seemed to emerge. Triple meter -- a waltz, beginning with the tentative pull of bow across violins that could not be seen. Ironeye inclined his head toward Freddie, then offered up a gloved hand. ]
no subject
The music kicks on before Freddie can offer to share similar—it's instrumental, nothing with words like the Frank Sinatra cover he'd shared with Ruhong earlier in the evening. He rather preferred the Sinatra, truth be told, but this isn't bad. The invisible violinists in the other man's mind are talented. It creates an atmosphere in the silent, spacelike void of the ballroom.
He takes the offered hand, but not without a self-effacing grin and a disclaimer. ]
The last time I waltzed was at a wedding and I was leading, just so we keep our hopes in check here.
no subject
[ The rise and fall of the strings, like a heartbeat in minor key. The deeper thrum of cello and bass soon joined, picking up a more lively tempo. Yet even in that energy, there was something of a note of sorrow to the chorus that emerged, though their words could not be easily distinguished.
It somehow rather suited their surroundings.
Despite his earlier claims, Ironeye's footwork was deft enough, and he seemed to recall more of it on the quick. So long as Freddie was content to play along, he'd start them on a smooth turn about the floor. ]
no subject
But he doesn't mind it, either. It's fun, and it's novel, and it being a novelty adds to the fun. Mostly he's just relieved that one of them knows what they're doing here, because he'd been guessing the whole time with Ruhong.
His smile is genuine. ]
I'm Freddie. Freddie Lavoie. You're—?
no subject
Ironeye. [ There was a glint of humor in his strangely blue eyes, as if at the idea of exchanging names with strangers in a dream. Who knew if they'd ever meet again, after all? ]
You sell yourself too short. That wedding can't have been that long ago.
no subject
Not in everything. I know what I’m good at. I’m just not nearly as good at this as I am at those things.
[ He considers for just a beat, tilting his head a little to regard his dance partner with curiosity. ]
I’m guessing you do a lot more dancing in your daily life than I do, or you took some classes. Lot of social events? Or do your friends just keep getting married?
no subject
[ Women were more apt to talk to you once they figured out you weren't going to step on their feet, after all. And then, since Freddie had brought up the topic: ]
What is your specialty, then? I'm curious.
no subject
[ How many times has he said that, especially in situations like this one? It’s always followed by a slew of the usual questions, like Did you always want to fly? and usually a few about the real story around the safety of flying (especially lately)—but Freddie hardly minds the chance to talk about it, even if it’s usually just rehashing. It doesn’t get old, and neither does the swell of pride when he first informs someone of his vocation, just as he does now. ]
I’d just gotten out of the Air Force when I came here. I’d been flying commercial for about a year, maybe a few months less.
[ And then, before even getting a full year in the job he’d waited ten years for, the position he got deployed three times for, he’d ended up here, pulled away from all of it. It’s a cruel joke. He tries not to dwell the feeling of bitterness and loss that reality invokes right now, though, not after dragging himself out of everything that came earlier in the night. ]
confused fantasy archer alert 🙃
So you're a former soldier? An airborne one?
[ This... was not entirely an unheard-of concept to Ironeye, whose colleague belonged to the proud Pinionfolk. But the first image that came to mind was riding a great hawk; humans, unlike the Guardian, did not come with wings of their own. ]
it gets worse. / cw brief mention of weight loss/mild internalized fatphobia
[ Has he jumped out of planes? Yes, in OTS, on training exercises. Did he have any interest in making that his profession? Not particularly. And, admittedly, for as much inaccurate flak as the so-called “Chair Force” catches from chest-beating grunts in every other branch… well, yeah, basic training probably was physically easier for him than whatever the hell they were doing in Fort Benning.
(SERE-C made up for that and then some. He must have lost fifteen pounds, and that was back when he didn’t really have any weight to lose.) ]
Actual Air Force. I flew a B52.
(no subject)
ii.
It's enough to be giddy over, especially when hot and bothered.
Thank you, Sleep.
Aventurine's smile is casual without strain, suggesting he's pretty accepting of Freddie's reassurance. It also doesn't hurt that, even if this wasn't a dream, Aventurine's good fortune is so uncannily consistent that it's hard for him to first consider anything unfortunate happening.
(but that's also what makes it worth it: it's the sensation that comes with risk, no matter how small: the thrill of seeing if it's a win or lose, if today's the day his luck falters and everything's over. Whether he ultimately longs for that or fears it, even he's not entirely sure. Regardless... what's more heart-pounding than something that? What else can make you feel alive like the risk of losing something to chance? )
The last thing here that has him going? the direct eye contact. Aventurine's eyes are unique. People either find them beautiful or terrifying, and it's far more the latter, which is why he mostly wears tinted glasses even in Manhattan where they don't even have anything like daylight.
He'll reach up to drag a finger down the middle of Freddie's throat slow and sensual, humming in agreement. ]
Your confidence is smooth rather than haughty. I like it. Show me a good time, won't you?
no subject
He also enjoys the trace of that fingertip down his throat, the smooth skin of its pad dragging against the slightest stubble that's begun to appear after the morning's shave for the short stretch of exposed skin available to him before a crisp white collar buttoned to the throat and finished with an immaculately pressed tie.
It's Freddie's turn to let out a chuckle, soft and warm, this time at the invitation. ]
Oh, that won't be a problem.
[ He leans forward now, shifting onto his knees, and takes the wrist that doesn't belong to the hand running along his throat, wrapping his longer fingers around it and pinning it over his head with the arm that is to hold his weight as he looms over Aventurine's smaller frame—there's a considerable height difference between them, something like half a foot if he had to guess, and Freddie definitely appreciates that.
His other hand, of course, remains free, his shoulder uninhibited—it needs to be, so that he can lightly run the muzzle of the firearm long Aventurine's side, languid, teasing. ]
You get off on danger, huh? Usually that's just guys who have been in war zones and shit.
i!
although, this voice does ping him as someone he's heard before— and jayce takes a look at the man in the mask. ]
Have we met?
[ they have. jayce knows it, but he knows he looks quite different from how he was seen before— he barely recognizes himself in the mirror when he's shaggy and thin. ]
no subject
He hadn't been thrilled the last time they'd seen each other—but that was also a dream. Not that his feelings about everyone else he met in that dream didn't immediately carry over into the waking world, but maybe he'll get lucky here—he had recognized the guy as attractive before he recognized the guy, and he's still not uninterested in dancing with him and getting up close to admire for a few minutes on the dancefloor, for whatever that means about his personal values.
So Freddie shrugs it off just as his question had been, like it's no big deal, like the guy hadn't... more-or-less accused him of being a monster. He was operating off of limited information. He didn't know what ISIS does, he didn't truly understand why they had to kill. Freddie didn't truly understand until he got over there, and he'd been exposed to multiple years of CNN broadcasts showing the worst of their crimes. ]
The dream.
[ Freddie lifts his mask for just a moment, like a hatch, before letting it fall. The emerald feathers are luxuriously smooth against the pads of his fingers, almost as soft as his satin pocket square in the same shade. ]
Freddie Lavoie.
no subject
Jayce. Jayce Talis. [ it's not like the seat next to him is taken, so . . . jayce scoots a bit to the side and brings his legs together; makes himself smaller. ] No better time to clear the air, huh.
no subject
I guess not. There’s no hard feelings on my part. We were all… [ He gestures vaguely with his other hand. ] It’s a lot to take in. And that was a lot for you to have to see. I’m sorry that you got pulled into that.
[ Just like he’s sorry that Toki did. He has to get this under control—it’s like the memories are seeping out of him, carving new paths like the Yellow River changing its course, finding new ways to escape the dams the Air Force had always assisted him in so meticulously constructing. He doesn’t like it. And he doesn’t like feeling like a live grenade in a human body, not sure who he’s about to pull into something nobody should have to see unless it’s mission-imperative. Ideally, nobody would have been in that situation at all, himself included, and ISIS never would have come to be, period. ]
no subject
No, I was harsh. And fed up. [ he may have even . . . projected. ] It wasn't fair, even moreso toward a stranger I know nothing about, so— I'm sorry.
no subject
He finds himself... almost uncomfortable, being in this particular spotlight. Uneasy. He doesn't know how to respond, because he doesn't have practice responding, not really. Freddie clears his throat a little awkwardly. ]
It's okay. Really.
[ Holding eye contact feels a little difficult right now, a little too intense in combination with the context it's being made in, so he looks out toward the dancefloor instead as he asks, ]
Did you serve?
[ It seems the most likely explanation for the vitriol, the explosiveness of the reaction. Not everyone comes back from war some sad guy who drinks his pain away and stays out of everyone's way. A lot of people are just fucking angry and come back not knowing how to be human or how to relate to people who haven't killed or even just how to not estrange them. More than one guy from his unit ended up getting divorced post-tour. ]
no subject
[ it takes jayce a moment to realize what he's being asked, because it's— never been a part of his life. he never knew war, although he found out about battle the hard way. the stupid way in wanting to take matters into his own hands at some point, actually . . . it's most disbelief that paints him before jayce shakes his head. ]
I— No . . . I'm a scientist.
[ mel was right. he doesn't know war. and today, he never wants to see anything akin to it. not ever again. ]
iii. / Ω
So while he is able to only somewhat grasp "where" he is (and why, and how?) in the most general, loosely abstract sense of the term, he is in many ways still clearly very much a fish out of water 'round these parts: the fresh-faced, doe-eyed rookie looking lost and overwhelmed on his first day of boot camp shortly before meeting his new drill sergeant... or rather, as the case happens to be, Major Lavoie, sir! ]
Yes, sir, [ he says quickly on simple reflex, knuckling his forehead without bothering to question how they've both come to be here. His heart races already with an apparent eagerness to be put in his place, to be of ready and willing service to this man however he should need him. ] Major Lavoie, sir.